American Gods: The Fighting Irish
by piccolo14
Summary: When his friend Lou Gyffes suddenly leaves for Georgia, Tom Baylor follows him, and learns more of himself than he ever wanted to know. The first story I ever wrote, so sorry about the quality or lack thereof


**American Gods**

The Fighting Irish

In his thirty years as a New York City policeman, Thomas Baylor had never seen a man quite so big as Lou Gyffes. He was tall, but not especially so, maybe six feet. He was muscled, too, but no bodybuilder. To Tom Baylor, however, the man felt positively gargantuan. He just carried himself that way, like he expected that if he ordered it, shit went down. Even ten years years ago, when Tom had first met him, when Lou had been brought in for assault, he had looked huge.

Lou was handsome, in a way. He wasn't the kind of Calvin Klein, pretty-boy you see in underwear ads, for certain. He was rugged. He was reasonably big, and he was the type women flock to because the look of him screams trouble. His tan obviously came from long hours out in the sun, rather than the phony, machine-induced type that people settle for nowadays. The things that stood out though, were his hair and his eyes. He had flaming red hair and beard, the kind of hair that looked like fire itself, and his eyes were an almost iridescent green. Every time Tom saw him, he turned almost as green as Lou's eyes with envy. Lou Gyffes would never be lonely, he was convinced of that.

"Jesus, Lou, did you have to break his legs?" Tom sighed. Lou shrugged.

"He tried for my wallet, what did you want me to do?" He seemed unusually edgy. Tom resigned himself with another sigh. Lou was a regular at the station. He was a small-time con man when he was brought in on a charge of assault ten years ago. Tom had processed him, and seen him sent to prison. It wasn't until five years later that Tom had picked him up for public drunkenness, and they had got to talking. He found, surprisingly, that he liked the big man. Despite being loud, and more than fond of a couple bottles of good Irish whiskey, Lou was remarkably intelligent. He seemed the type who, were he born thousands of years ago, would have made a great general, or warrior, or something. At the same time, he had such a grasp of politics, of medicine, of mathematics, and history, that Tom marveled that he wasn't a famous neuro-surgeon, or lawyer, or something. When Tom had put forth his query, Lou just shrugged and said that "In today's world, it's better for my kind to just lay low." While he thought it was an odd response, Tom didn't push the issue. Now, ten years after they first met, and five after they had become friends, Tom sat across from Lou in a dingy Baltimore diner, coming down off of an intense adrenaline high. Lou had taken his favorite baseball bat to a would-be pickpocket's knees, and they had just got out of there before the cops arrived. Honestly, were Tom not retired, he'd probably have taken Lou in right there, or at least, he hoped he would've.

"Goddammit, Lou, you can't afford this. Think! You can't let yourself rot in prison for another five years, I won't let you, Goddammit!" With a sullen, sarcastic mumble of, "Thanks, Dad," Lou went back to his omelet. Lou had never known his father. At the least, that's what he told people. Tom had a hunch that it went a bit deeper than that. Tom liked to think he filled that void for the young man. Maybe he could swerve him off of the self-destructive path Lou had put himself on.

"Tom, what would happen if everything you ever felt, ever thought you knew, turned out to be a lie? Like, if God didn't exist, but Satan ran everything, or something? Or worse. What if the Church was just some elaborate lie, and the Old Gods were true, or even that there was no god?" Tom was confused. He knew Lou was not a religious man, but he'd never come and outright blasphemed in front of Tom. He'd at least respected that Tom was a devout Irish Catholic, and never said anything like this before. He did know that Lou was unusually on edge lately.

"Never really thought about it," Tom replied, gruffly. Lou smiled, that sort of melancholy smile someone gives you if they know something you don't and pity you for it.

"Sure, forget I said anything. Listen, I'm heading out of town for a while. No, it has nothing to do with the fight tonight. But I'll be gone for a time." Tom was now completely confused. He'd never heard Lou say anything about traveling.

"When are you leaving?"

"Right now, actually, I'm going to Georgia. I'm going to meet my son at Rock City. See you around." Lou got up and walked out the door, leaving Tom speechless and more confused than ever. A son? Lou had never said anything about a son.

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Lou Gyffes opened the door to his Brooklyn home. He packed some clothes, a toothbrush, and deodorant, and chucked them in the car. He laughed to himself, thinking it was funny how he treated this like it was any other trip, even though he might never come back. He went back inside to collect his last few belongings.

First was the spear he kept between his mattresses. He unwrapped it, and reverently drew it out of the bag he kept it in. Checking the blade, he found it perfectly sharp, even after the eons that it had been at rest.

"You've slept for a long time, old friend. Soon, you will wake, and our enemies with flee before your wrath, as so many did in times past. Were we but fighting the giants, as we once did. But, sadly, these new foes are far deadlier. May you drink deeply of their blood," He said, chuckling humorlessly. Wrapping it up once more, Lou carried it out and put it in the car.

Heading inside yet again, he went to retrieve his other treasures: A rod with a chain-sling, and an ancient suit of leather armor. Loading these into his car, he checked his map, and departed.

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Tom Baylor pushed his peas around his plate with a thoughtful expression. His wife, Edith, put a hand on his shoulder. "Honey, what's wrong? Did something happen today?" Tom looked up at her. Even at sixty, she was a handsome woman. You could tell that years ago, she was almost supermodel beautiful. "Oh, it's Lou. Out of the blue, he just says he's going to Georgia, some place called Rock City. And then he just left, saying something about meeting his son. He had a look on his face, like, a look like he was about to face down the Reaper himself." Edith pursed her lips, looking like she was thinking about something that just didn't compute. Then she said, "Lou never mentioned a son. And he's the type that would take responsibility, too. And just leaving? That's not like him, Tom." Tom tensed up. "You think I don't know all that, dammit? I'm going after him." Edith just nodded, and said "I'm coming too. He's my friend as well, and I'm worried." Tom was about to argue, but something in her tone told him that if he opened his mouth he'd catch a rolling pin upside his head. "Right then, let's go find out what we can about this Rock City place." He booted up their computer and brought up a tourist website. He printed off directions, read some info pages, and went off to bed.

Tom, or at least, he thought he was Tom, walked across an ancient battlefield. He looked at himself, decked out in some really old, really pretty armor. He stood at the head of a great army of one-eyed giants. Across from them stood another army. Looking at them, he suddenly, somehow knew who they were. Tuatha De' Danaan. They stole lands that should be his and his son's, and for that they will all die. As the two great armies met, all his gaze came to rest upon withered and died. Suddenly, he was in combat with a mighty, courageous warrior. The warrior (Ogma, his mind cried the warriors name), knocked Tom's sword from his hand, but fell beneath his gaze. Seeing a great fighter with a silver arm, with Tom's mind screaming that this was their king, and he must die. "Nuada!," the king's name flew from his lips . Fear, pure fear crossed Nuada's face as he fell under Tom's deadly gaze. Striding up to the dying king, he struck Nuada's head from his body. Holding the head up in victory, he cried "Look to Balor, all of you, for I have taken the head of Nuada of the Silver-Arm, and in the same blow, struck the off the head of the Tuatha De'!"

Suddenly, a deep voice roared, "Balor! Face me! Face Lugh Strong-Arm, you dog, and face your death!" Tom/Balor looked to find the source of the cry. Suddenly he saw Lou Gyffes wearing an ancient form of leather armor, spinning a chain-sling through the air. "You look to kill me, boy? Bah. You shall fare no better than your liege." Suddenly, Lou/Lugh's sling let fly, and the world went dark. Tom woke up in a cold sweat.

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Lou walked up to a old black man. "They killed him, Anansi? They really killed Woden?" he asked, rage coming through thick in his voice. "Those bastards really broke truce and murdered him?" The shorter black man looked around at the camp, gesturing at the dozens of Gods surrounding them and replied, with a faint, almost-indistinguishable West African accent, "Think, Lugh. Would we be here if they hadn't?" He turned away and disappeared into the crowd of familiar faces. One in particular caught his attention.

A huge, handsome young man in armor was walking up to him holding a long spear, grinning from ear to ear. "I know that spear! How are you, son?" The two clasped in a fierce embrace, "I've been alright, better than most dead people, Father." Lugh chuckled. "Oh, by the way, Dad, I saw Macha here earlier, though I've lost sight of her." Cuchulain shivered, and said, "I'm glad to have her on our side, but she even gives _me_ the creeps." Lugh nodded, grinning, "Aye, you're right to be pleased, and fearful. I could tell you stories about that one, lad. Glad I am, and almost am inclined to pity for our foes. Lugh, Macha, and Cuchulain. We'll put the fear of the Irish in 'em, we will." The two laughed, and went to find the fearsome Morrigan.

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As Tom and Edith pulled into a parking lot at Rock City, everything changed. It was impossible to describe, but Tom suddenly knew he had crossed some sort of inter-dimensional threshold. He was somewhere else, somewhere beyond the plane of normality. As Tom looked about, his jaw hit the floor. He couldn't see the top of Lookout Mountain, but the base he could see clearly enough, and he couldn't believe what he saw. Dozens of people, dressed in the strangest and most ancient looking clothes and armor he'd ever seen, gathered in a camp at the base. Was that a floating head? He saw Lou, dressed in the armor from Tom's dream, standing and talking to an utterly _massive_ young man, decked out similarly, and a fearsome looking woman, who was excitedly demonstrating, apparently, the correct technique for the decapitation and scalping of one's foe.

"There he is, over there!" Tom cried and pointed. Edith gave him a loaded glare, a strange mixture of worry and confusion. "There's no one here, Honey. Let's go, please." She seemed distant, as if there were miles between them. Tom shook his head. "You can, babe, but I'm staying. I'm sorry." After a few minutes of arguing, Edith nodded, and after Tom climbed out, said, "Goodbye, hun, I'll see you at home." and drove off. Tom strode toward his friend and shouted, "Lou, by God, what in the hell is this?"

Lou, hearing the familiar voice, turned, shocked, and stared at his friend. "Tom, what are you doing here? And, uh, how can you see us?" Tom was confused, as he was beginning to feel was the norm, nowadays. He looked at Lou, looked at the young man, and looked at the woman, and then looked, with an expression that might have well been a question mark stamped on his forehead, back at Lou. Lou slumped his shoulders and said, "You shouldn't have come. You shouldn't even be able to see us, unless. . ." shock and realization suddenly crossed Lou's face.

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It couldn't be. It simply couldn't. But it would explain why Tom had seemed so very familiar when Lugh had first met him, and why Tom was there. It had to be. Tom glared at him, saying, "Would you just tell me what the hell is going on, please?" Lugh collected himself enough to reply. "Very well, Tom. It seems that you're one of us, so you can know. When I asked you about the possibility that the Old Gods still existed, this is what I was talking about. Columbus didn't discover America. People had been coming here since forever. I know some guys who own a funeral home in the Midwest who came over here with an Egyptian expedition 10,000 years ago. The guy we're here to avenge was brought over by the Vikings in the 900's A.D. Every one of us came here in the minds of our people, as each group landed on these shores. We, Tom, are gods."

Tom shook his head, "You're crazy, Lou. You are fucking crazy." He started to back away, and he was followed by Lou, who circled him as he spoke.

"No, I'm not crazy. Well, I may well be, but not about this. Each one of us is a god. We are here to honor Woden, of the Norse. That woman over there," He gestured to an ebony-skinned giantess with many arms, "Is Kali, the Indian goddess of death. The two old men over there are Anansi, the West African trickster god, and Czernobog, the Rus god of darkness. I am Lugh Strong-Arm, of the Irish, known to the Welsh as Lleu Llaw Gyffes. This is my son, Cuchulain, greatest hero of the Irish, and Macha, one-third of the Morrigan, the Irish goddess of war and death.

Tom caught his breath and nodded. Normally, he would of passed this off as madness and called the fuzz, but nothing about this week had been normal, and besides, what Lugh had said just _felt_ right. "And why can I see you, then? And who am I that belongs here?"

Lugh hesitated. "I know you are one of us, or you wouldn't even suspect we were here. And _I_ suspect, I know, that you are Balor of the Evil Eye, high king of the Fomorian giants. At the Battle of Magh Tuiredh, you slew my friend Ogma, and my king Nuada Silver-Arm, before being struck down by my sling."

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Tom, relating this to his dream/vision, accepted and confirmed this. "Are you going to kill me then, Lugh? Are we going to repeat the past?" Lugh sighed, and then shrugged. "Not here. We have a difficult enough foe at the peak of the mount, without fighting amongst ourselves. Take up your sword, Balor, and join our fight. With your deadly eye, my sling, Macha's sword, and Cuchulain's spear, the American gods have no chance. And even so, you're still Tom Baylor, and I'm still Lou Gyffes. I'd rather not have to kill you again." He grinned and let out a thunderous laugh, and clapped Tom upon the shoulder. Tom responded with a grin of his own. He looked down, and somehow, his clothes had become the ornate armor he was wearing in the dream, and he wore a sword at his side. One of his eyes closed, and stayed that way. And he grew to three times his previous size.

Suddenly, the battle began. Balor had no idea what the "American gods" they went to war with were, or why. He just knew that his place lay here, amongst this motley crew of displaced deities. He didn't know the people he fought beside. He had read about some, like Kali, in school. He didn't _know_ if he could trust them, like his buddies on the force. But he _felt_ that he could, and that was all that mattered to him, right then. They started up the hill. Suddenly, sniper fire rained down. Shots glanced off of his armor, one even grazed the side of his face. He saw several gods go down, under the hail of bullets. As the army reached the summit, the two forces clashed. The enemies that Balor could see wore Armani suits, trench coats, and leather jackets. Many looked like Men in Black. His sword felled a group of MiBs. His shut eye snapped open, and with a will of it's own scanned the field of battle, enemies falling under it's life-draining gaze. He saw Lugh cry out, hunched over a lifeless form Balor recognized as Cuchulain. He saw Macha, upon being disarmed, use her teeth to tear out an enemy's throat. She then let out a shrill cry, as another man came up behind her an slipped a knife between her ribs. And as suddenly as it began it was over.

A great bird, thunder rumbling with each flap of it's wings, passed overhead. The skirmish had slowed to a halt, as each side prepared itself for the _real_ battle. Balor shivered. What was to come made the horror of before look like an episode of Peewee's Playhouse. They had already lost two of the Irish contingent, Macha and Cuchulain. As if on cue, Lugh drew up beside him. His hair had become as flame, his eyes burned with hatred and rage.

"Those fuckers killed Woden. Those fuckers killed Macha. _Those fuckers killed my son!"_ Balor quaked in fear of Lugh. He felt for his ages old foe. But he did not want to get between him and the enemy. Suddenly, an angry and vicious, but obviously feminine voice spoke out behind him.

"Actually, Lugh, I'm not dead yet. This mere scratch is forgotten. Our enemy's blood has passed my lips, and my strength has returned." Macha came up behind them, and she too was _angry_. "These weaklings slew Cuchulain as cowards would, shooting him as one does a dog. They did not face him, as men face each other. As gods face each other. For this dishonor, they will pay dearly." She clasped Lugh's shoulder, and Lugh returned the salute.

Balor looked across the arena that the summit had become. He looked across at their foes. He saw great metal beasts. He saw gods of information, the railroad, the freeway. He saw gods of money, of sex, of drugs, and, as evidenced by the men in black that they'd been fighting, gods of shadowy government agencies. He saw gods of film, of literature, and of art. He suddenly realized the truth about them.

Gods were fluid. Gods do not live and die as men do. Even if they are killed, as Lugh had killed him, they can live again, so long as they are believed in. The power of belief is what creates and sustains gods. The ones he fought alongside are waning, with few believers. He chuckled. Everyone Tom Baylor had known would cringe at the backwoods belief in pixies, or trolls, or dwarves. Yet he as he looked about, he saw them. Yet, everything on this side looked drained. It was obvious that for the old gods, belief, their lifeblood, was in short supply. Truly, this is a poor land for gods.

Yet even some of the American gods looked drained. A man who looked like a archetypal Railroad baron was downright haggard, his suit threadbare and dusty, and his monocle scratched up. A man who looked like a ship captain was better off, but still not in great shape. As both sides raged at their losses, sized each other up, he realized how hopeless both situations were. The old gods offered mystery, magic, and hope to the people. But that wasn't enough. People want wealth, people want security, and people want an easy road. So people stopped believing in the old gods. Then as technology advanced, people put their faith in technology and science, and new gods were born. But as technology moves on, so do people. The obsolete gods are left behind. Gods of technology and modern living are forgotten even quicker than the old gods. People were fickle beings. For those that lived and died based on their ever changing beliefs, death loomed ever closer.

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Lugh fumed with grief and rage. He wanted nothing more than vengeance for the death of Cuchulain. He was prepared to die fighting these cunts. They took his followers. They wanted to take his life. And now they had taken his son. He was about to let his sling fly, when suddenly, a man walked into the center of the arena. This new man was big, and dressed as a modern god, but carried himself with the pride of the old. Shadow Moon, Woden's errand boy. Lugh thought he had died. They had hung Shadow from the World Tree Yggdrasil, in vigil above Woden's corpse. He had hung there, crucified, for nine days and nights, without food. No human could of survived that. Curious, Lugh gave him his complete attention. He spoke, in a collected, even conversational tone, "You know, this is not a war. This was never intended to be a war. And if any of you think this is a war, you are deluding yourselves."

A minotaur cried out, "We are fighting for our survival!" A pillar of glittering smoke, on the opposite side protested, saying, "We are fighting for our existence!" Lugh scoffed at the bastard's attempt to justify himself. Balor simply looked on with interest.

Shadow continued, "This is a bad land for gods. You've probably all learned that, in your own way. The old gods are ignored. The new gods are as quickly taken up as they are abandoned, cast aside for the next big thing. Either you've been forgotten, or you're scared you're going to be rendered obsolete, or maybe you're just getting tired of existing on the whim of people.

The people had begun to listen. They had found themselves agreeing with him. Even Lugh was starting to come out of his rage and blood lust and think with his head. Shadow continued, "There was a god who came here from a far land, and whose power and influence waned as belief in him faded. He was a god who took his power from sacrifice, and from death, and especially from war. The deaths of those who fell in war were dedicated to him–whole battlefields that had given him in the Old Country power and sustenance."

Shadow had begun to pace. "Now he was old. He made his living as a grifter, working with another god of his pantheon, a god of chaos and deceit. Together, they rooked the gullible. Together they took people for all they'd got."

Lugh suddenly realized he was talking about Woden. He began to think. Woden was old, powerless. He and Loki were working together as two-bit grifters for the last few years. He himself had often dreamt of the power of his past days, but how to achieve it, again?

"Somewhere in there–maybe fifty years ago, maybe a hundred, they put a plan into motion, a plan to create a reserve of power they could both tap into. Something that would make them stronger than they had ever been. After all, what could be more powerful than a battlefield covered with dead gods? The game they played was called 'Let's you and him fight.' Do you see?"

Lugh was shocked. He had been used? Was it the Woden and Loki then that were to answer for the death of Cuchulain, rather than the upstarts opposite him? He composed himself, suppressing his rage and hate for now, and listening.

"The battle you came here for isn't something that any of you can win or lose. The winning and the losing are unimportant, to them. What matters is that enough of you die. Each of you that falls in battle gives him power. Every one of you that dies, feeds him. Do you understand?"

Lugh did. Woden had betrayed them. Woden had betrayed Cuchulain. The lad had come to fight for himself and his father. He had come to fight for their friends and allies. And he had been used, so some rotting old bastard could live a few millenia longer. He would die beneath Lugh's spear. Then Lugh chuckled. Woden was already dead. The new gods had blown off half of his face. Lugh laughed hysterically. In that case, he just wouldn't kill anyone else here. Looking over at the laughing, almost crazed Lugh, Balor realized the same. As Lugh sheathed his spear and sling, Balor nodded in approval, shut his evil eye, and scabbarded his blade.

Shadow stopped pacing in the center of the arena. A noise enveloped the arena. A huge, shirtless man wearing a top hat and smoking a cigar, with skin the colour of mahogany, entered the center. Seeing the look of confusion on Balor's face, Lugh leaned over. "Baron Samedi. The Voodoo Loa of the Dead." Balor nodded.

Samedi spoke, "Okay. But Odin. He died. At the peace talks. Motherfuckers killed him. He died. I know death. Nobody going to fool me about death."

Lugh was disgusted. He hadn't figured it out yet? Nobody was ever going to accuse Samedi of being a genius, but this was bad. Shadow had pretty much spelled it out for 'em, and the moron still couldn't figure it out. He chuckled. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised, after all, Samedi had trouble forming even basic sentences. Lugh turned his attention back to Shadow.

Shadow sighed, and responded, "Obviously. He had to die for real. He sacrificed his physical body to make this war happen. After the battle he would have been more powerful than he had ever been." Someone, Lugh couldn't tell which side it came from, called out, "Who are you?"

"I am–I was–I am his son."

Another voice came from one of the new gods, a god of drugs. "But Mister World said. . ."

"There _was_ no Mister World. There never was any such person. He was just another one of you bastards trying to feed on the chaos he created."

Lugh almost pitied them. Their great and glorious leader, a joke. Nothing but a con. The hurt and insult was evident in each and every face amongst the new gods.

Shadow slowly shook his head. "You know," he said, "I think I would rather be a man than a god. We don't need anyone to believe in us. We just keep going anyhow. It's what we do."

Thunder cracked, and things went dark. The gods were leaving. It was all over. Balor, Macha, and Lugh looked at one another, and stepped back into the real world.

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Tom Baylor tried to clear his head by shaking it. What the hell had just happened? He stood up, back in his regular clothes, and looked about. They were back at Rock City, and the retired cop soon laid eyes on a certain Irish con artist from Baltimore, and a lovely young lady wearing a U.S. Army uniform. As he walked away, he heard the girl tell Lou, "under Marsha Morrigan. I'm stationed at Ft. Benning, not far from here. Look me up sometime." Lou replied "Will do. Good to see you, Marsha." She walked off, and Lou walked up to Tom, flashing a melancholy grin. "Huh, well, that was an adventure, eh? I just wish. . ." and suddenly, tears streamed down the warrior's face, the grief of his son's death welling forth all at once." Tom held him as he wept. "It'll be alright, Lou. Maybe he'll live again, somehow, like Woden meant to. C'mon. Let's head home." The big man nodded, composed himself, and they caught a cab home.

Epilogue

Lou was sitting in his small Brooklyn home, having just got back from dinner at Edith and Tom's place. Tom had recently sold his investments, and made a small fortune, and had given it all to Lou, in the hopes that he'd get out of the con game. And Lou did exactly that. He'd kept up with Marsha, who'd recently been promoted to Captain. She'd also been transferred over to Iraq. He hadn't heard too much from her since, but the few calls he had received gave him the impression that she was having a hell of a good time. And that her men were scared shitless of her. He sat down to pour out a glass of Bailey's Irish Cream when his doorbell rang. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be right there.," he answered. Upon opening the door, his eyes widened. In shock, he dropped the bottle and it spilled all over the floor. He didn't care. He undid the chain slider, flung the door open, and embraced the large, red-headed young man that stood on the patio. With tears streaming down his face, he sent out a silent thanks to those few who still believed, for they gave him his son back.


End file.
